Chapter 1 - Opening
Groans and rumbling sounds were all around. The world was grey and misty. Swaying movement disturbed the equilibrium of the world, and making sense of anything seemed impossible.
"Hey, you. You're finally awake."
A man was speaking. He was blonde, blue-eyed, and filthy. The scent of sweat clung to this man, and the others in the cart. There were three of them, two in armor, one in rags. All of their hands were bound.
Panic and familiarity invaded her mind. This was all so familiar, and yet she had never been here before. If only she could remember.
"You were trying to cross the border, right?"
She opened her mouth and tried to speak, but he continued.
"Walked right into that imperial ambush, same as us and that thief over there."
He turned his gaze to the man in the tattered tunic and leggings.
"No-" She started, intending to correct the mistake that had been made. She didn't belong here. This all felt very wrong.
The thief cut her off, though, and angrily spat at the blonde man who had first spoken.
"Damn you Stormcloaks." Her head snapped up at that word. She knew that word. Stormcloaks. Rebellion. But that wasn't real...she knew it couldn't be real.
"Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy."
He had continued speaking, disregarding her abrupt movement at his words. That didn't sound too good. Lazy empires weren't good, though she couldn't remember why not.
"If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and be halfway to hammerfell." The sense of familiarity had developed into acute déjà vu.
The woods continued to go by them, as the cart rolled along the steep mountainous road. She glanced over at the third man in the cart and caught him watching her. His mouth was bound and he surveyed the rest of the people in the cart as well.
"You there. You and me - we shouldn't be here."
She couldn't but agree with the thief. Deja vu and a slight dizziness were making the whole situation unbearable.
"It's these stormcloaks the empire wants."
The thief turned his glare to the soldier, for that was what he looked like she realized, seated with them in the cart.
"I know, I-"
"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief." The soldier interrupted her, wryly.
"Shut up back there!" A grating voice came over the rumbling of the wooden wheels.
"What's wrong with him, huh?" The thief spoke more quietly now, referring to the gagged soldier sitting next to her.
"Watch your tongue." The first soldier snapped harshly. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."
Her mind again lit up at the name. Ulfric Stormcloak. She knew that name from somewhere. "Ulfric?" The thief sounded incredulous and disbelieving. "The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion."
He continued on in a lower voice, fear coloring his words.
"But if they've captured you...Oh gods, where are they taking us?"
To the chopping block, her mind supplied helpfully. But they didn't behead people, did they? That was barbaric...then again, she clearly wasn't in Kansas anymore. Then her mind blanked. What had she thought? Kansas? What was that?
Murmuring, the soldier replied solemnly.
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits."
Sovngarde; the world of the dead, containing a hall of great warriors. It sounded familiar to her ears, but the word Asgard filtered through her muddled thoughts. Norse mythology? Is that who she was...Norse?
The thief's voice was overcome with panic now.
"No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening."
Denial, she thought, amused.
The soldier looked over at the thief, not unkindly.
"Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?" His tone was gentle and calming.
What village was she from? Village, no, that wasn't right. City? That was it. She was from a city.
Ulfric Stormcloak seemed oblivious to the goings on as the thief replied bitterly.
"Why do you care?"
He seemed ashamed of his fear, and wouldn't meet anyone's eyes.
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."
The soldier replied, his tone comforting even to her.
"Rorikstead. I'm...I'm from Rorikstead."
A silence ensued, as they listened to the sound of the wooden wheels against the frozen ground. She shivered, the chill air not yielding to the warmth of the sun beating down on their heads.
"And you, traveler?" The soldier questioned after a moment. She looked up and searched for something, anything.
"I...I don't know."
She thought she remembered loud noises and machines but that didn't fit in with this place. Wooden wagons were not a familiar sight to her.
The soldier grinned wryly.
"Been traveling so long you've forgotten?" He joked.
She twisted her fingers together, feeling the rope cut into her wrists.
"No...I must have hit my head...I can't remember anything."
His joking expression fell and he leaned forward slightly.
"Do you know your name?"
Again, she searched for something - anything - to tell her who she was, but there was nothing. Her emotions threatened to overwhelm her, and she blinked a few times to suppress the dampness gathering in her eyes.
"No."
She looked down at her bound hands, seeing the smooth unblemished skin covered with a layer of dirt and dust.
"The empire has gone very wrong, to be treating people this way. I am sorry." She nodded, but he continued.
"You look like a Nord, though there is something of a Breton in your brow."
Those races sounded very vaguely familiar, but she didn't know anything about them.
However, she decided to address his first statement about unfairness.
"I can't really know if it is unfair, though. I might be a spy, or a criminal, and not know it." The gate came into view as the cart turned a corner on the trail.
"Well, lass, I know you weren't with us." He reasoned.
The gate opened to allow the horseman and cart in front of them to enter the village. A voice called down from above the gate.
"General Tullius, sir, the headsman is waiting."
She shivered involuntarily at the words, but a voice from somewhere in front of them replied gruffly, almost angrily.
"Good. Lets get this over with."
She darted looks at the cart's other occupants. The soldier had his eyes turned forward, towards what awaited them in the village. The thief was sneaking looks behind and around them shiftily, searching for something desperately. As she watched him, the thief turned his eyes to his hands and canted under his breath with fearful desperation.
"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me."
She wrinkled her brow slightly, turning the names over in her head. That they were divine meant they were gods, but wasn't there only one god? No...the names did sound vaguely familiar. Her head felt achy and her throat felt suddenly dry. The déjà vu was getting worse.
"What is your name?"
The words escaped her mouth without thought. She had been thinking of them as thief and soldier, but they must have names. Jarl Ulfric, the only person whose name she knew, was leaning over with his arms propped on his knees, appearing to be deep in thought.
The thief looked at her, and she thought she saw a flash of pity in his eyes, before responding. "Lokir."
Her eyes turned to the soldier, asking the same question of him, silently, with her eyes. "Ralof." He smiled grimly at her while surveying their surroundings. Spotting something, he continued.
"Look at him. General Tullius the military governor."
Her eyes followed his to a man seated on a horse, off to the side. Facing him there were grey skinned people with sharp, angular faces and robes.
"And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this." The sound of the gate closing behind the last rider in the procession was ominous and final. The emotions threatened to overwhelm her again. Fear, unfamiliarity, pain, and the growing pain in her head all shook her tenuous control over herself. She took a deep breath through her nose, then her mouth, but the growing feeling of being unable to breath didn't abate.
She looked up to find Ralof observing her, carefully. When she caught him looking, he turned to look at the town.
"This is Helgen."
His tone was light; an attempt to distract from the serious nature of their situation. He continued wryly.
"I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in."
She felt as though she should be gasping for air, and the pounding in her head wasn't helping matters. Ralof lost himself in happier memories for a few moments before continuing on a darker note.
"Funny. When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."
She was grateful to him for filling what otherwise would have been a punishing silence. His last words seemed to be filled with a longing for the easier times as a child.
Up ahead the townspeople had come out and gathered to see the procession. A young child, a boy by his clothing, spoke to someone she couldn't see asking about the procession. His father replied, not unkindly.
"You need to go inside, little cub."
He walked over to his son to shepherd the boy inside.
"Why? I want to watch the soldiers."
The little boy sounded enthusiastic. He clearly didn't understand what was going to happen.
"Inside the house. Now."
The father's voice became more stern as the carts got closer to the headsman and the child protested.
The boy yielded to his fathers demands, murmuring.
"Yes, Papa."
As the carts reached a stone archway, the imperial guard driving the cart spoke to the horse.
"Woah."
A soldier in red walked up to the first cart. She spoke in harsh tones, giving orders.
"Get these prisoners out of the carts."
When the action didn't happen quickly enough to suit her needs, she added.
"Move it!"
Lokir, the horse thief, who had been silent since they entered the gates of Helgen, looked around fearfully and spoke.
"Why are we stopping?"
The question seemed rhetorical, but Ralof answered him anyway.
"Why do you think? End of the line."
He sounded resigned and defeated, but not afraid. She wondered how he managed it, because she was terrified.
The first cart was already being unloaded of its passengers, four soldiers. Four Stormcloak soldiers, she corrected herself, dressed in mail armor with a blue sash across their front and back.
Their cart stopped, and her heart gave a lurch. She wanted to bring her hands to her temples or the bridge of her nose to try and release the throbbing pain in her head, but the invisible binds around her lungs and throat wouldn't let her get enough air to do anything.
Ralof, not one for waiting around or for remaining silent for long, spoke again.
"Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."
They all stood, and Lokir shouted desperately.
"No! Wait! We're not rebels!"
She thought it was a bad way to phrase it because some of them clearly were Stormcloaks, but she doubted that her criticism would be welcomed. She also doubted that the soldiers really cared whether he was a rebel or not.
Ulfric Stormcloak jumped down from the cart first, followed by Lokir, who was shaking with terror. Ralof spoke to him disdainfully.
"Face your death with some courage, thief."
However, Lokir was not to be stopped. As she jumped down from the cart awkwardly, stumbling on her landing and wincing minutely from the increased throbbing at her temples, he continued to argue.
"You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"
The female in the red augmented armor ignored him, shouting apathetically.
"Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time."
As another soldier pulled out a book to read from, Ralof sighed behind her.
"Empire loves their damn lists."
She looked towards him, where he was standing proudly next to her, easily a head taller than her. As she turned back to face forward, words escaped her in a murmur.
"I don't want to die."
She heard rather than saw Ralof glance towards her as he replied softly.
"Sovngarde awaits, lass. Do your ancestors proud."
She swallowed convulsively as a name was called out.
"Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm."
He stepped forward and Ralof spoke again.
"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric!"
The imperial soldier continued, peering down at the book in his hands.
"Ralof of Riverwood."
He too walked forward towards where the headsman was standing. Not wanting him to walk completely in silence she called after him.
"It was a pleasure to have met you, Ralof."
He turned his gaze back to her after a moment and replied, almost humorously.
"And you as well, lass. My we meet again in golden halls."
The Imperial soldier read, once more, from the book.
"Lokir of Rorikstead."
Lokir, terrified and shaking like a leaf now, walked forward and shouted.
"No, I'm not a rebel. You can't do this!"
Without warning, he took off running down the cobblestone road, and the female guard called out, "Halt!"
He yelled back, "You're not going to kill me!"
To her ears, it sounded almost teasing, however, the guards were unamused and disinclined to give mercy. The woman called out, "Archers!"
There was the sound of a bowstring being pulled, released, and finally the thump of Lokir's dead body on the road.
The woman, a captain it sounded like, turned back to the prisoners and said belligerently. "Anyone else feel like running?"
She could feel herself shaking now, and clenched her hands to regain some control. The pounding in her head was still going, and her throat felt tight and dry. Swallowing didn't ease the stress.
The soldier reading from the book looked at her with some confusion.
"Wait. You there. Step forward." He commanded her, and she felt her feet obey.
He asked her, haltingly. "Who...are you?"
She opened her mouth and searched for an answer, but finally had to reply completely honestly, forcing the words out of her uncooperative throat.
"I don't know."